#that wirk more like the fatid in malazan

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

The Games We Play - The Last Day of Solheim

So, I wrote something new. Here’s the Link to ao3.

Summary:

Magic is in flow. Even bound as it is can it still be used to guess and to predict, if one knows how to.

What if Galahd had been more cautious after the Conqueror King of Lucis came with his Black Ships to conquer them and nearly won? What if Galahd had had a warning about the invasion to come near two thousand years later? What if Galahd had been prepared? It will be a long fight. A fight no one can see the consequences of.

New story. Yay! I know, I know. I'm still working on all of my unfinished ones, but they're taking their sweet time and my brain insisted on this one, so here it is. This work is heavily inspired by Malazan Book of the Fallen (The best book series ever imo. Go check it out) and borrows some of its elements so don't be surprised if something seemes familiar. It probably is^^ That said this will be a pretty long work beginning at the time from shortly before Nifelheim's attack on Galahd. The traditional mage system of Final Fantasy remains largely intact with a few extrad added on. Not all chapters will be fast paced and full of epic battles, most won't, in fact. War also means murky politics, so politics this will contain. From Galahdian inter-clan politics, to politics between countries and everything in between. (What can I say? I love fantasy politics.) I will also flesh out the cultures of all participating players. Mainly Galahd, Nifelheim and Lucis, so be prepared for that if the above hasn't already chased you away. ;)

Warnings for this chapter: Mention of child abuse, graphic description of death, implied sexual violence, the last Emperor of Solheim was one sick f*ck

The last Emperor of Solheim stared down onto the cards that were laid out on the table made of expensive yellow oak, in intricate design. A fiery sun wheel paired with a death-trail and a war council.

An Emperor had to be foresighted and wise, yes that he had. And this one was wise. Very, very wise. It had been him, after all, that had ordered the High Priest to lay the cards in the way his forefathers had forbidden generations ago.

A wise Emperor also knew his weaknesses and this one knew his only too well. He was weak. He lacked the strength needed to share the splendorous glory of Solheim with the rest of Eos. A goal he had worked towards from the day he had been crowned. Like his father had said after he had beaten him into a bloody pulp for slacking off in his lessons: An Emperor without a lofty goal to strife towards was no Emperor at all but a useless puppet with a crown, and no Emperor of Solheim would be a useless puppet.

And now he saw the fruits of his long and arduous labour spread out on the table in front of him. His lifework.

The Emperor's gaze wandered from the cards towards the High Priest who looked at him with impossibly wide eyes, pale beneath his caramel coloured skin. His eyes reminded the Emperor of two dull puddles of honey. Without any intelligence to speak of. He ought to know. His father had cured him of that affliction, after all. The thought was amusing and he had to suppress the silly giggle bubbling in his throat. Emperors didn't giggle. And it might chase the poor High Priest away as if the Shadows themselves were after him.

This had to stay a secret. Yes, yes, it had to. The glory of Solheim would not be diminished by something like this. Least of all now, when new lands had been found far to the west. It could be naught else but a gift from Eos herself to him. Despite her long absence had the Lady of the Heavenly Bodies acknowledged his greatness.

He would send ships. Yes, an armada of ships with his best trained slaves to settle the land and show the barbarians there what actually constituted as civilized living. Those who refused to accept Solheims superiority would be killed or broken and taken to task as the building force to erect grand palaces in his honour. Pleasure pulsed in his loins at that thought and he licked his suddenly dry lips.

He blinked as the man next to him shuffled in a growing panic, his mouth opening and closing as he jabbered on and on about something he didn't care to hear.

Ah, yes. The secret, yes.

Without sparing further thought about it or considering the consequences, he drew the dagger that, despite its ceremonial function, was still razor-sharp and rammed it into the High Priest's chest, right between his tattooed ribs and into his heart. Or at last close to. The Emperor didn't really care.

Fascinated he watched the High Priest's face grow slack, watched how his eyes went comically wide and his mouth opened and closed as if it belonged to a fish gasping for water on dry land.

Blood dripped down the no more flawless blade in small rivulets and onto the hand that gripped it. The Emperor pulled it from the hunk of flesh – and that was all that the High Priest was now, he thought with sick pleasure pooling between his legs, a dead piece of flesh. He fell towards the ground, landing with a hollow thunk in an ungraceful heap. For some reason that greatly displeased the Emperor. Death should be... be this. He kicked the piece of dead flesh with his naked foot until sightless eyes stared at him. They were even duller than before. A murky colourless something that didn't have an ounce of Solheimr grace.

If that was his innermost self, then he was glad he had killed the High Priest. Such a dirty nothingness didn't belong in his radiant Empire.

With a satisfied grin he cleaned the dagger on the floor-length toga the dead piece of flesh still wore and sheathed it back it his hip where it belonged.

A secret only stays a secret, if all but one who know are dead.

Solheim would stay great and radiant. No, it would grow even greater and more radiant. The Emperor wanted it so, and if an Emperor wanted something it would happen.

Now for the evidence. To leave evidence of a secret behind would only spell disaster. He stared at the cards on the table again. Ifrit upside down inside the fiery sun wheel, Eos at the head of the death-trail and Bahamut at the centre of the war council. And over all loomed the Gates, the Meteor and a card depicting glowing butterflies and writhing darkness. This would not do. This would not do at all. With one fell swoop of his arms the cards, painstakingly carved from ivory, clattered onto the ground, over and around the dead piece of flesh.

The Emperor nodded, satisfied with his work, and adjusted his crown that wound in stylized flames and sunbeams around the back of his head and down the sides of his face. He hummed a senseless tune as he exited the room, ordering the nearest slave to lock the door and not step or look inside. This would be his secret, and his alone. The Emperor alone would be allowed to indulge in it whenever he pleased.

There was much to do, very much indeed. A conquest to plan and games to hold to keep the mindless sheep satisfied. But first he would claim the service of one of his pleasure slaves, or maybe two or three, to relieve the tightness in his loins.

Back in the room the Emperor had ordered shut – and indeed no living person would ever step into its walls ever again – with its lofty ceiling and open round arches looking towards the Sun Tower where the imperial family resided laid the poor man that had been the last High Priest of Ifrit, dead eyes gazing upon the opulently painted ceiling.

Cards laid scattered around him. The only ones still facing up were The King of Fire, the Meteor, the Gates and the ever-devouring Parasite of Pitioss.

The flow of the future had been determined. Tomorrow Solheims eternal glory would burn in Ifrit's wrathful flames.